


But Best To Rule In Heaven

by Svirdilu



Series: What-if Wednesday [2]
Category: Roleplay - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-08-01 07:25:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16280225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Svirdilu/pseuds/Svirdilu
Summary: And some art!





	But Best To Rule In Heaven

"Rip them out."

For all that Greed was hinging his plans on making a deal very like this one, that he was ready to spring at any opportunity - it still strikes the Sin momentarily silent. He was expecting it to cost him far more.

The offer hangs in the air, stark and sterile and almost impersonal, more demand than not.

"Oi, oi - you sure about this?"

The man standing in front of him tosses him an unimpressed look over his shoulder as he pulls his shirt off over his head. He doesn't say anything, but the implied words are clear - he wouldn't have said it if he wasn't sure, now would he? 

He rolls his shoulders, and wings spring out - ragged, ungroomed, unkempt. They were a bright crimson, once, the edges tipped in gold; now they're scorched black from soft down to pinions. Hints of the old colours show through, but it'd be far too kind to call them anything like iridescent. They're dull as ash and matted besides.

Snake-eyes gleam from the shadows of the cave. There's nothing but the vaguest suggestion of movement by candle-glow as Martel shifts forward. "All your feathers," she says (asks?), confirming. (This feels too fast, too simple for her too.)

The corner of Stocke's mouth quirks up, as if bitterly amused, but there's no laughter in his eyes. The cold in his expression doesn't budge an inch. "You know I won't be flying again anyway."

It's true. There's too much burnt away, too much damage exacerbated by the former angel's lack of care. But even if his wings were pristine - they wouldn't be enough. No human can fly with wings, not without divinity to buoy them up, and the lack of it in Stocke is as obvious as the swirling emptiness of a black hole. There's not even the burning, hellfire core that demons take in to replace what's missing. Just _nothing_.

Again, the former angel looks over his shoulder at Greed. "Hurry it up," he insists, his own fingers sinking into his feathers. Nobody moves, and Stocke lets out a sharp, aggravated sigh. He _yanks_ , tearing out a clump of pinfeathers. Blood sizzles in an arc across the stone floor, drilling acidic holes; Stocke opens his mouth again -

Greed clicks his tongue to his teeth before Stocke can say anything, a scowl sliding its way onto his face. "Tch --" 

He likes this bit the least of all - it's the only thing any of them have come up with, but it still seems like such a _waste_.

He motions with one hand anyway, and the horde descends. 

The next few seconds are bloody as torture would be, ragged breathing and muffled sounds that never graduate to screams. There's a loud _snap!_ as one wing breaks and vanishes under the weight of being _featherless_. It seems both an eternity and only a few moments before the next follows it; Stocke slumps down, all the instinctual fight going out of him. His wrist drops from his mouth, two bloodied semicircles on it where he bit to keep from making noise.

Greed hops off his perch and prowls forward, sinking to a crouch in front of the former angel. Stocke's eyes are glazed and fevered, but they focus when the demon tips his head back with two fingers - "Get me back up there, _Sin_ ," he hisses through bared teeth.

Greed's own lips pull back from shark's grin, though they're curled in a displeased grimace. "I don't go back on my word. You should already know that, eh?" The Sin stands, flicking his fingers - "Make sure he's taken care of, Dolcetto."

"Got it, boss," the hellhound responds; Dolcetto pads toward Stocke to sling one of the man's arms over his own shoulders. Stocke doesn't try to shake him off - the former angel's eyes are closed, now, and his teeth gritted. The whistle of air through his lungs is raw. He slumps against Dolcetto without argument.

Greed slinks back to his makeshift throne, silently, his own leathery wings looming behind him like those of some hulking vulture. Behind him, feathers are rounded up and counted with more care than his gang of demons reserves even for gems and jewels. Down on the mortal plane, these are far more rare - and far more precious.

\---

It takes them near a week to get the feathers ready. The whole time their new (angel? he's not that anymore, but he's no demon, and no human either -) stays holed up in the room Dolcetto dropped him off in. He's certainly in there, but he takes no candles to light his way, and the air of wary, hostile defensiveness is so strong that even though Nesters who make an effort to get to know him back out soon after. Licking his wounds, they all decide.

It rains outside the cave unceasingly. Those who step outside come back in drenched and trailing puddles.

Within, the Nest plots. Greed reclines against Roa and boasts aloud of all the things he'll (they'll) have sway over once they rule in Heaven. One of his fingers flows red, and he smears it on feather after feather - a Sin's blood is so much more effective than any other demon's. Martel and Bido crouch on the floor together, trying to piece together what they know of symbols, pentacles, from being summoned in the days before they joined him. Ulchi paces when he's around, brings more supplies from who-knows-where out in the wet when they run low.

Stocke seems to know exactly when they're almost ready; he shows up out of nowhere when they're puzzling over the last of it. He's torn through the bandages Dolcetto wrapped around his torso - there are two thin lines of down and short feathers down his shoulderblades, as if to mock him. He doesn't seem to care. 

He steps carefully over Bido's tail and settles down next to the reptilian demons; his voice joins theirs, quiet. Bido flinches, at first, but it doesn't last long. In place of active apprehension all three of them avoid making abrupt movements.

Two more hours pass, and - suddenly, abruptly - Greed is out of feathers. Martel and Bido smirk at each other, triumphant, as Stocke draws away again. They're done.

\---

Greed is the first through the reverse-summoning, his feet trailing through the ashes left by their circle. Holy light beams down on him, brighter and more sacred than he should be able to stand, but he's shielded by the fuel of burned angel feathers. He grins a demon's grin; his spaded tail curls in an Ouroboros circle, then yanks through the gap to join him, a signal that it's safe.

This? The Sin breathes in sanctified air, _avarice_ and satisfaction swirling in his chest. This is all going to change. 

Second through the circle is Stocke, rolling through and onto his feet as if he expects to be an immediate target. His head swivels to scan the horizon, making sure they haven't been noticed yet. When he's satisfied himself his fingers relax around the knives he has between them. Not infernal, no longer divine - he won't be able to summon a weapon like the rest, and he relies on human steel to carry him through.

Next is Martel, then Roa, ducking to fit his shoulders through. The entire Nest spills through, demon after demon. As they form up into groups, exclaiming quietly over where they've found themselves - most were born Below, and have no way to remember marble and clouds and _light_ \- Stocke steps up to Greed's side.

"Hugo first," he says. There's no reason for it Greed can see, but... the former angel's expression has changed.

The Sin gives Stocke a look over his shades. "HA - greedy, aren't you? The deal was we get you up here." But he can't say he disapproves, interest sparked - at least until Stocke shakes his head, stance tense.

"Hugo needs to die fast. Or this won't go well." His tone is sure and steady, but it's not confident in the way that someone certain of a win would be. It's the surety of someone doomed.

Greed eyes him, nudging shades back in front of his eyes. His spaded tail jingles softly through the clouded surface underfoot. " _Ehh_ \- long as I get my throne, doesn't matter." He raises his voice, calling out to his Nest, his _possessions_ \- "Oi, you lot!"

\---

It doesn't go as planned. Does anything ever? 

Greed yanks Ulchi out of the way of an angel's holy spear, and the point screeches against the carbon scales of his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stocke tackle Bido out of the way of another angel and come up slashing deadly circles. Peals of purifying light slam down like lightning, but when they fade the Nesters always remain untouched - there's more than one reason they wanted holy feathers. 

At some point Greed and Stocke end up fighting back to back - the former angel gives a full body shudder of disgust when what remains of his wings brushes against the leathery folds of Greed's. He doesn't complain aloud, though, and he adapts to the Sin's fighting style impressively quickly - ducking underneath to let angels' weapons skid over Greed's impervious Shield, stabbing out to watch the Sin's back. It's almost as if he's done this a million times before. But that can't be true - Greed met him barely a week and a half ago.

They battle their way into the Heaven's throne room, fire and soot in their wake. Angels outside blow trumpets, shout, sing; the Nesters shut the doors behind themselves, and they slam with a final-sounding _thud_. Giant latches swing down to seal the place.

The hall is deserted, and everyone's tired footsteps echo. The place is deathly empty - Hugo's dead and gone as of two days ago, wings crumpled unceremoniously and anticlimactically beneath his body. Even the One who's supposed to sit here - he left His children behind millennia ago, left them to free will and their own choices. All His children, humans, angels, and Fallen alike.

The throne ( _the_ throne) is clean and pristine, free of dust. Greed immediately sprawls across it, chains and jewelry jangling. There's some ragged, drained cheers from his Nesters, scattered - not so much unhappy or despairing as plain old _tired_. They're doing it. They're _winning_. If they can hold this siege for just another week, rulership defaults to them.

Some of them have been lost along the way, of course - a distant scowl pulls at Greed's lips. But angel feathers are the crux of it, again and again. They all have just enough faux holiness in them that even Heaven's weapons won't exorcise them permanently. They'll simply have been sent back down Below, to be fetched when this is done. It's really only the Sin at risk; his blood for those feathers means he's the breaking point, vulnerable. (He wouldn't have it any other way - his possessions are _his_ , and nobody can take them.)

Over in one corner, Stocke is slumped exhausted over three tall stairsteps. Bido's at his back, clawed nails scraping soot gently from the remnants of Stocke's wings - the lizard-like demon is just as weary, and his movements are slow. Greed watches them with interest out of the corner of one eye. Stocke shivers, again, at the sensation, but the expression on his face isn't disgust - the Sin wonders if that time earlier was actually...

Ten minutes pass. The pounding on the doors has receded, for now, and many of the Nesters have dozed off in the first rest they've gotten in days; Greed stands, cracking his back and stretching out his wings. He struts down the steps, upper body bent forward, to nudge some Nesters into more comfortable spots and circle the throne room's edges. Martel gives him a tired nod from atop a niche in one of the room's marble pillars. She's shoved a statue out of the way to take its place, and it lies shattered on the floor.

At some point the Sin pauses near Stocke and Bido. The lizard-demon's asleep, poor tired bastard; Stocke, though, meets his gaze with half-lidded eyes. There's something odd in them, a kind of resigned glint. 

Greed's struck by a sure thought, one that makes avarice purr again through his bones. The former angel's already stuck with them far longer than he needed to. They've passed his mission, moved on to only the Nest's.

_You're going to be mine, eventually._

"I know," Stocke says quietly. His head's already braced on his folded arms; now his eyes shut, and it's barely seconds before he's breathing the steady in-out of sleep. (Or is he pretending?)

The Sin moves on, interest once again stirring. He never said anything aloud...

\---

There's only hours left until the week is up when the throne room's door finally shatters. The first angel through the door has eight wings, glowing so bright as to burn, and Greed's scowl of " _Wrath_ -" is matched by Stocke's hissed, "Bradley." 

The former angel jerks his head around to look at the Sin, his expression genuinely taken aback. "He's a Risen _Sin?_ "

More angels stream in afterward, and the final fight is on, but Greed has eyes only for his former "sibling." They fight across the hall, Wrath's four arms and four swords overwhelmingly a match even for Greed's Shield, but the Sin's hunger won't even let him _think_ he's outclassed. Sparks fly from his Shield; when he ducks aside, Wrath carves deep gashes into the throne room's marble columns as if they're nothing more than butter.

One by one, Nesters drop. This was never a game of overpowering Heaven, only of taking advantage of a loophole, and they didn't expect to survive a full assault - they don't need to. The minutes tick by, one by one, and time draws ever closer.

Most Nesters are banished out of their leader's sight. But even Greed can't help but flinch when he sees Dolcetto stabbed through the middle, vanishing with a silent scream into hellfire - and that's his undoing. Wrath stabs him through, pinning his shoulders to the very throne they were fighting upon; before the demon can react, Bradley's two remaining swords go through his guts and _twist_. 

Greed writhes once, only once, before his teeth curve up into a bloodied grin. That's a death blow, he knows. Sanctified blades, and he's the only one who's not temporarily immune. 

So this is it, isn't it? And they were so close...

The Sin has the satisfaction of seeing a knife run through Wrath's neck as soon as the archangel steps back, wiping his hands. Holy light blazes once in Bradley's eyes - then he drops, all eight wings crumpling to reveal Stocke panting behind him. For all that the former angel's expression is muted, desperation echoes through his eyes.

"Don't you dare die now, Sin - it's not your time, don't - _Greed!_ "

The angels remaining in the hall don't make a move. Their only leader left has just been slain, they're in shock, and besides - Greed is gasping out his last. There's perhaps two minutes left before Heaven would've fallen to Hell's renegades, but the Sin's life will flicker out before that can come to pass.

Stocke, still panting for breath, suddenly snarls. He yanks out the swords in Greed's gut, one by one - the Sin's vision is growing dim, and while he jerks he barely feels the pain. What he does feel, though -

Hellfire pouring into him, stoking his core back to blazing life. Greed takes in a heavy, burning breath as the final seconds spin past, the throne room echoing with horrified yelling. But it's _want_ that really wakes him as the emptiness in Stocke spills over infernal, the former angel finally, truly Falling.

Heaven drops dark, dark, dark.

**Author's Note:**

> [And some art!](https://svirdilu.tumblr.com/post/178999588001)


End file.
